


Love of the Loveless

by DeadWalker



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Daryl is a little slow on the uptake but it's alright in the end, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Daryl, set around the time they still were at the prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 16:25:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1476295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadWalker/pseuds/DeadWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl is smart guy, but sometimes he can be a little slow on the uptake. Especially when it comes to things involving a certain Grimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love of the Loveless

**Author's Note:**

> More notes at the end!
> 
> The title is borrowed from the Eels song of the same name. Inspiration and a little kick on the arse taken from this prompt: “tell a story divided into four sections, one for each season.”  
> (http://fanficy-prompts.tumblr.com/post/77969701666/general-prompt-tell-a-story-divided-into-four)
> 
> I own nothing, obviously.

**It was August** , the first time Daryl felt it. It happened during a run they made into a nearby town. Supplies at the prison had run alarmingly low and a decision was made to hit the place they had passed through before a few miles south of the prison. It wasn't overrun had looked sleepy enough to be safe for a quick run - in and out, no hassle. They would sweep through, search the pharmacies for meds and the local grocery store for food. Deciding that it was not necessary to put any more people in danger and that it really was easier to move around with a smaller group, the honor had squarely fallen to him, Rick, and Michonne. Initially, Rick had insisted that he could make the trip with just Michonne. That idea was hastily taken back, courtesy of the look Daryl gave him.

The little pharmacy had they had stopped by first turned out to be a bust – it had been meticulously emptied of anything and everything usable. When they doubled back and arrived at the town's only small grocery store, it seemed like their luck just wasn't with them that day. Hearing the snarls of a few dozen walkers trapped inside, they had no choice but to leave the store, and the possible supplies inside, be.

All morning, as they had stumbled from one location to the next, Daryl had been watching the increasing desperation on Rick's face. It looked like it was slowly draining him. Daryl could see it now in the set of his grim mouth, his lips pressed together in a thin line, and the deepening creases around his eyes. He looked exhausted, and Daryl would have done anything to wipe the look off his face. After a few moments of silent cursing outside the walker-filled grocery store, Rick finally ushered them to the surrounding residential area with a pinched look on his face. They would search the houses and head home.

"Better luck on the next run," Michonne consoled Rick as they headed to the edge of the town.

The first house they checked was a white, one-story bungalow. Standing at the end of a street that must have been quiet even before the world took a turn to hell, it had once obviously belonged to a small family. Small shoes had been scattered just inside the front door, and toys were strewn around the hallway and the living room floor.

Wanting to make sure the house was truly empty, the trio had moved from room to room on quiet feet, weapons raised. Of course, Daryl should have known Rick would take it upon himself to keep things from getting tedious. Looking for baby formula for Judith, Daryl had just stepped over a plastic toy car laying on its side in the doorway to the kitchen to search through the cabinets. He had been pulling out canned beans and a half empty bottle of syrup to get to the formula when he had heard the muffled scuff of a shoe behind him. The dramatic personality that he was, even his stumbling was theatrical, and Rick was about to make a spectacular face-planting pirouette when Daryl finally caught up to the situation. Lucky for Rick, Daryl had the reflexes of a cat. He had dropped the cans and swirled around in one smooth motion, catching Rick by his upper arms before he toppled over.

Later, Daryl would reason to himself that it was pure instinct. It wasn't his fault Rick was clumsy like a drunken deer on ice, and he hadn't had a choice. The racket could have brought curious walkers over, or Rick could have twisted his ankle, and Daryl would have been the person to drag his sorry ass back home when he was unable to walk himself.

Of course, that was not entirely true. Daryl _had_ acted on pure instinct, but the instinct had been to protect his own. To protect Rick. He hadn't even spared a thought at the walkers shuffling outside the house. He had swirled around and grabbed hold of Rick before even stopping to think that he might have landed on his feet even without Daryl's help, because he had been afraid the clumsy bastard might hurt himself. Maybe he just had a soft spot for that big nose of Rick's, he reasoned to himself. Maybe he just didn't want to see it broken. God knows how goofy Rick would have looked with a badly set broken nose.

The motion and the awkward way Daryl had twisted himself in order to stay upright under Rick's weight brought Rick's face inches from Daryl's. Apparently instinctively, Rick also grabbed a hold or Daryl's upper arms for support, and held on firmly even after regaining his balance.

For a few heartbeats, Rick looked startled. Daryl must have looked just as surprised, but the other man didn't seem to notice. A shy smile replaced the expression of surprise on Rick's face, crinkling the corners of his eyes and smoothing away the worry lines. Their faces were so close their noses almost bumped, and Daryl felt felt the warm breath ghosting over his face as Rick huffed a laugh.

“Nice catch,” he said, and unnecessarily kept holding on to Daryl's arms.

And just like that, there was the moment he felt it for the first time.

Daryl wasn't really paying attention to Rick's words, because he was concentrating on the weird things the contact was doing to him. The touch burned like wildfire under Daryl's skin, and something twisted in his guts as he stared into the blue eyes in front of him. Something must have short-circuited in his brain because he found himself thinking if he just reached out, he could smooth out the rest of those worried lines from around Rick's mouth and eyes. The soft smile playing on his lips made Rick look so young. Daryl's stomach ached as he thought how rarely he wore that expression anymore.

Out of nowhere, Merle's taunting voice started echoing in his ears.

_Hey little brother! You better snap out o' yer daydream._

Darly hadn't heard the voice in a while – it had been blessedly quiet for weeks – and it set his teeth on edge.

_Better step back, Darleena, befo' they start thinkin' yer getting your panties in a twist fer Officer Friendly here._

Daryl's hands jerked on their own accord, and to swat the thought aside, he finally opened his mouth to speak. “Yeah. N' prob. Was jus' worried ye might land on yer face, is all.”

Rick's hands slipped from Daryl's arms to his waist, seemingly unbeknownst to their owner, and the amused crinkles around his eyes deepened. Daryl's skin tingled where the warmth from Rick's hands on his waist seeped through his clothes and his breathing was getting uneven. Why was Rick looking at him like that? _And Why am I not trying to stop it?_

 _Shoulda known and beaten it the fuck out o' ya. Dixons ain't goddamn faggots,_ Merle's whisper jeered from somewhere in the recesses of his mind.

Daryl tensed. Rick must have seen the flicker of anger on his face because his smile faltered and the hands on Daryl's waist tightened. It did nothing but fan the flames playing underneath Daryl's skin, but Merle's voice drained out of his head like sand from a glass jar. Maybe sensing him relaxing again, Rick's smile returned, and Daryl couldn't help the grin tugging at the corners of his own mouth.

They stood there, smiling softly to one another, when Michonne's polite cough snapped them out of it. Rick dropped his hands, and Daryl swirled around again to busy himself with the dropped cans of beans. Michonne didn't say a word, but the smirk on her lips was a tad too knowing.

 

 **It was December,** and the moment at the kitchen of that empty house was a distant memory. Mother Nature had seemingly decided to test their survival skills and the hot Georgia summer had turned into a chilly early winter. The sudden, harsh cold spurred the whole prison into action. Preparing for the oncoming winter and gathering supplies became the priority. The busy days hardly left Daryl any time for soul searching or to think about that odd twist of his insides, but he figured it was for the best. He wasn't sure he would like what he found.

Deciding that food gathering was the best way Daryl could help his group to survive, he set off into the nearby woods to hunt. He took only his crossbow, a few knives tucked into his belt, and – after a long and arduous argument with a certain nagging ex-officer-of-the-law – Rick's Python. Stalking from the prison gates Daryl swore under his breath. Sometimes they argued like an old married couple. Still, although he would never admit it to Rick, the gun's weight at his side was a comfort.

Later on, he would be thankful for that gun. A thick blanket of snow had fallen the previous night, and the bullets loaded into the Python were his salvation when a half-frozen walker, buried in the snow and damn near invisible, grabbed Daryl's leg. He lost his balance and hit his head on a icy root sticking out from the ground. As the ground had rushed up to meet him, the crossbow had been flung from his hands and smashed against a tree. Nothing that could be fixed later on, but the impact was enough to break the trigger mechanism. The bow was useless, and there was a snarling walker with a grip on his ankle. To his luck, Daryl was tough enough son of a bitch not to black out right away. With black dots dancing in his eyes he managed to yank his pant cuff from the walker's grasp and put a bullet through its head with the Python. Then the darkness swallowed his vision.

When he came to, the forest was pitch black. It was a small miracle no walkers had found him while he had been lying out cold. Maybe it had something to do with the chill, the way it made them sluggish and even stupider than usual. The same biting cold had stiffened Daryl's limbs, and his head pounded so bad his ears were ringing. Closing his eyes and drifting off again felt like a viable option, screw the world that was shit these days anyway, when a sudden thought pulled him out of his stupor.

He realized that Rick might have been worried.

How long had Daryl been gone? Rick might come looking for him. He might start searching for Daryl alone, and get in trouble. Scrambling up from the snow, Daryl flung the broken crossbow over his shoulder, picked up the Python, and limped along his own tracks. His ankle was twisted – possibly sprained – and his vision swam with black spots, but he dismissed all of it.

_Rick might come looking for me and get hurt._

It turned out the man in question had indeed been worried, but someone had been smart enough to forcefully stop Rick from flying out - guns blazing - to look for him. When Daryl finally stumbled out of the forest and into the view of the prison, he heard a shout, followed by the sight of distant figures rushing out of the building. One of them he recognized instantly from the slightly bowlegged gait and the unruly hair. Daryl was so relieved he forgot to focus on his already wobbly steps and stumbled again. He vaguely remembered someone calling his name frantically – Carol, maybe – before he toppled over. He heard the gate creak open, voices floating around, and footsteps crunching on the snow.

Then the voices quieted, and a pair of warm hands cupped his face – hands that were calloused, and very familiar. Knowing that he was safe and - unable to do anything to stop it - Daryl felt his mouth pull into a smile. Although Daryl would never admit to it, the others swore they heard him happily mumble Rick's name before he promptly passed out.

 

When he came to again, the first thing he was aware of – besides his hammering headache, the throbbing ankle, and the chill that still clung to his bones – had been one of those same familiar, warm hands resting on his cheek. Daryl let out a grunt and a muttered “fuck,” and the hand was joined by another, cupping his whole face in a soft grip.

“You scared me.”

The voice sounded so strangely thick it made Daryl crack open one eye. A face swam into focus, hovering above his. Rick looked haggard, his eyes tired and his hair disheveled. He looked like he had forgot how water and soap functioned, his beard was more grizzly than usual, and Daryl wondered how long he had been sitting there. How long had Daryl been out cold?

He looked Rick up and down for a few heartbeats, then cracked a crooked smile.

“An' ye look like shit, officer.”

His remark was rewarded by a huff of laughter. “So do you,” Rick said. “An' you really did scare me. Thought we'd lost you.” The look on his face was so tender Daryl felt like hiding from it. He looked so damn relieved. It made him incredibly uncomfortable.

That look might have been to blame, but Daryl's body no longer seemed to accept commands from his brain. Rick made to shift back when he had been talking, but Daryl's own hands, seemingly on their own accord, stopped the motion by trapping one of Rick's between them.

“Nah. I ain't that easy to kill.”

As he moved the hand to grip it to his chest, a voice in his head sounding suspiciously like Merle started jeering again.

 _And why the fuck are ye clingin' on to Officer Friendly's hand like some goddamn' scared lil brat?_ _You gonna get cozy with the son of a bitch that handcuffed me t' that rooftop?! Ya gon' abandon yer FAMILY and take 'is side, huh?_

The voice set Daryl's teeth on edge, and he squeezed the hand in his harder to scatter the thoughts. Rick didn't seem to notice, and he was quiet for a while before speaking.

“I know you ain't. And 'sides, I knew you'd come back.”

Daryl frowned. “Why's that?”

“You had to. I really like tha' gun and it'd be a shame to lose it.”

He snorted, and Rick's grin softened. A few seconds ticked by in silence. “And we need ya,” he said.

A pause. “Why?”

“We woulda been lost without you. I absolutely suck at huntin'.”

Daryl's answering laugh was raspy and made his lungs ache, but totally worth it as he watched Rick's eyes had dance in the dim light. A pause, and Rick's face got serious again as he gripped Daryl's hand a little tighter in his own calloused one and carefully leaned closer.

“An' you had t' come back to me.”

And there it was again. Daryl's skin danced like someone had clipped jump start cables to both of his index fingers and cranked up the power. His heart thumped in his chest so loud he was sure Rick would hear, or feel it. How could he not? It was like it tried to burst out of his chest to make contact with the hand Daryl was gripping in his. The familiar heavy feeling settled just below his heart, and he was fairly certain he was blushing quite spectacularly.

Rick only smiled. Stopping only to carefully extricate his hand from Daryl's grip and to brush a few strands of overly long hair from Daryl's face, he left to find him painkillers, “cause you really do look like shit, and like ye damn well need them.”

Daryl was left with an oddly skipping heart and an absence of touch that felt like that heart of his had indeed made its escape, and followed Rick out of the room.

 

 **It was April** , and Daryl had been thinking. He had been thinking hard about the odd roiling of his insides, and that strange tightness of his chest that came over him in certain situations.

After a careful assessment, he had come to a conclusion that there was a certain pattern. He felt it when he watched Rick ruffle Carl's hair – Carl would laugh, slap away his dad's hands, and swear he would get Daryl on his side to fend of Rick's attacks. Both of them would turn to Daryl, and smile to him as warmly as they smiled at each other. He felt it when Daryl fed baby Judith in his arms, only to feel something warm and heavy press at his back. Rick would lean on him, breath tickling his neck as he cooed at Judith over Daryl's shoulder. Daryl would always offer Rick the bottle, and Rick would always refuse.

“She's yers, ye should feed 'er,” Daryl would say in a feeble attempt to argue.

Rick's answering smile would be even softer when he answered, without missing a beat, “She's yours too.”

And the tightness would make a comeback. Warm and heavy weight somewhere in the vicinity of his chest that made his breathing a little heavier and color to creep up his neck.

“She fusses less when it's you feedin' 'er,” Rick would continue, leaning even closer to Daryl while reaching his other arm around and over his shoulder to touch Judith's soft curls. Daryl would bask in the feeling, wrapped up in family Grimes, and never remember feeling more content.

He laid in his bunk at night, or sat alone in the guard tower, and he thought about those moments. Whatever Merle might have had to said on the topic, he wasn't dumb. He had a viable guess what it all might have been pointing towards, but the prospect was so utterly terrifying he shied away from the mere thought of it. Things like that didn't happen - not to Daryl. He was a Dixon, after all.

There were also those times when Daryl had his nightmares. When he had dreams involving gurgling walkers, and feet that could not carry him quickly enough. He couldn't save himself, and – even worse – he couldn't save his family. In those dreams, he always heard the scared cries of a young girl. They would start of as Sophia's sobbing screams that, eventually, morphed into the crying of Judith. Daryl would run and run and run, taking down walkers with his bare hands as he went. But every time he finally reached the crying little girl, it was too late.

In one of those dreams when he had reached Judith, Rick was holding her. But they were both covered in blood, lying motionless at Daryl's feet, their eyes were glassy and unseeing. Daryl hadn't been quick enough, he had let them down. He had let down Merle, and now he would fail his new family, the people who looked at him with unconditional trust in their eyes.

He would wake up, gasping for air and shaking under the thin blankets in his prison bunk. That particular night, the darkness that enveloped him after he had opened his eyes made him panic even worse. Daryl flailed out his arms, trying to fend off invisible threats, panic squeezing his throat. Sophia was gone and Judith was gone and Rick was dead but damn it all to hell if Daryl wasn't going down with a fight. Dixons went down kicking and screaming.

As he trashed, the world tilted around him, and nothing seemed coherent. The only thing that made any sense to him were the gentle hands that gripped a hold of his wrists. Shoes scuffled on the concrete floor, and a calming voice floated to him in the darkness:

“Shhh, it's okay. It's okay Daryl.” A creak of knees and old metal springs as the presence lowered himself on the bunk. “I'm here, 's okay. Yer safe.”

And safe was how Daryl felt. It was instant, like cool water on a forest fire. The flames burning in Daryl's insides were extinguished, and the cold knot in his chest untied. His breathing gradually evened out as one of the hands holding his wrists moved to rest lightly on Daryl's hip, the other stroked sweat-soaked hair from his clammy face, and Rick continued to murmur softly in the dark. Daryl couldn't make out the words, but it didn't matter. Rick's calm voice meant everything was fine.

Daryl drifted off to a dreamless sleep, only to wake up to the presence of another body still beside him. He cracked open one bleary eye, and found Rick's peaceful face resting on the thin pillow, inches from Daryl's own. At some point during the darkest hours of the night, Rick must have laid down beside him. The wrinkles Rick carried around his mouth and eyes during the daytime were smoothed out in sleep, and he looked younger than ever. Daryl would never admit it to himself – he hadn't survived this long by bein' a pansy and he didn't need no protectin' – but he was glad Rick was still there.

Glancing down, Daryl had found their hands entwined between them. Some part of him was absolutely horrified that he should find himself waking up in a bed, next to a man, and holding hands with the said guy. Then again, another part of his mind pointed out, it seemed natural. Maybe it was his still sleep-muddled brain talking, but the hands looked like they were meant to fit together, like two pieces of a puzzle. It made Daryl decide there was no reason for him to really let go of that hand and get up. Rick looked so damn peaceful, and Daryl didn't have the heart to disturb him. Getting up would have meant jostling him, so he just stayed there, watching the other man sleep, wearing an expression like for once he wasn't carrying the weight of the whole world on his shoulders.

That time, when he felt his chest tighten in the now-familiar way, he had an inkling as to what it was. The reason was quite possibly snoring softly right in front of him.

 

 **It was June** , and Daryl was having one of his dreams again. They weren't so frequent anymore, and they weren't quite as paralyzing as before. The tendency of time to heal old hurts must have been to thank for that. With every passing day, it was getting easier to cope with the losses, to accept that this world wasn't built for everyone, and not every person was Daryl's to save. He didn't think of Sophia so often anymore, and when he did, the voice in his head that accused him of failing her was no longer so cruel, or so loud. It didn't sound like Merle anymore, either.

When he did have his nightmares, he also knew his desperate run in his dreams was not without an end. He knew he wasn't alone. He would whimper in his sleep, cold sweat beading on his forehead, and a pair of arms would encircle him. When the dead were chasing him in his head, a warm weight of a human body with a beating heart would press into his back, and call him back to the world of the living.

“It's okay, shhh,” the voice behind him in the bed always whispered, “I'm here."

The arms would snake around his torso as Daryl struggled to shake off the last cobwebs of the clinging nightmares. Warm kisses were pressed on to his neck, his temple, and the side of his face, while the voice behind him would murmur soothingly, “Just a dream, 's okay, 'm here,” over and over again.

One of those nights, when Daryl had finally managed to blink away the images dancing in his eyes, the soothing kisses didn't stop right away. They usually ceased the minute Rick knew he had chased away the dark dreams he knew Daryl was having. Daryl murmured that he was fine, that Rick could go back to sleep, it was all okay, but all he got for an answer was a breathy laugh. The kisses turned into careful nips of his neck and jaw. Daryl let out a quiet yelp and he could feel the man smiling against his shoulder.

“Bastard. Go back to sleep,” Daryl told him.

A bite, then a gentle kiss on the same spot. “But I'm not tired.”

“Well I am, so shut it, Officer Friendly.” But he couldn't quite keep the smile from his voice, and he knew Rick could hear it, taking the bite out of the words. Daryl shifted backwards and deeper into the embrace. “'Night, sweetheart.”

The endearment slipped out without a thought, and Daryl froze for a the space of a few heartbeats. It was the first time it happened. He obviously wasn't the sort of guy to use pet names, and he hadn't actually planned on starting now. Lil' Asskicker was an understandable exception, but before her, he had never felt strongly enough about a kid to coo at them using silly names. And he sure as hell had never felt the inkling to use one for a grown-ass man.

If Rick noticed Daryl's sudden awkwardness, he did not show it. He answered by tightening the arms around him imperceptibly. “Alright. Night, love,” Rick breathed out, air ghosting against Daryl's ear. A nose pressed into his neck, and Rick was soon snoring softly.

Daryl relaxed. He wasn't one for self-searching and he hadn't exactly spend much time assessing his inner emotions, but even he knew of his weaknesses. This – the constant second guessing – was one of them. He knew he had his uncertainties and his constant fear of doing something wrong. He knew he had been let down enough times in his life that some of his actions were still spurred by his deep-rooted dread of not being enough.

Thankfully, he also knew Rick was always there to snap him out of it. To balance him out. He was always there to tell they needed him when Daryl felt useless. That _Rick_ needed him. Passing Judith to his arms without hesitation. Trusting him with Carl's life - with his own - without even batting an eyelash. Where Daryl's rough edges were so sharp they cut up Daryl himself and everyone around him, Rick softened them out with affection that seemed to know no limits. It sounded sickeningly sweet in his ears, but Daryl knew it was true. Rick made him better.

Sometimes, Daryl wanted to ask him why.

He wanted to know why Rick had chosen him. Why did he want Daryl to stick around when no-one else did, where did that endless trust of his come from? Why was it that Rick could ask advice from the entire council at the prison, from people that surely had better judgment that Daryl did, but only took it if he turned to Daryl, and saw him nod? Why did Rick love him when he was worthy of it, and loved him even more fiercely when Daryl sure as hell didn't deserve it?

His insides ached. He wondered if it was possible to spontaneously burst into flames.

 _I hope that snoring bastard knows,_ he thought _. I hope he knows I would die for him without blinking._

_I hope he knows I love him so much it hurts._

He still remembered the time when they had finally stopped kidding themselves. When they had finally admitted not being just brothers. When they had stopped saying “we need you” and started saying “I need you”. No-one seemed to have been surprised when they found out. When Rick had absentmindedly dropped a kiss on Daryl's lips before sauntering out of the cell block to work in the garden, there were a few raised eyebrows, but no-one had seemed to be honestly taken aback. Glenn and Maggie had exchanged a secretive look. Beth had smiled and rested her small hand on Daryl's shoulder as she passed by, Judith in her arms, and the knowing smirk was back on Michonne's face. She never admitted to it, but Daryl could have sworn he heard her mutter a quiet “fucking finally” from the bench in the corner from where she was watching.

Daryl heaved a heavy sigh. “Why me, Rick?” he muttered quietly, but aloud, in the darkness to no-one in particular.

“Because you're an idiot, Daryl Dixon,” a voice answered behind him ,“but yer mine.” Not sleeping, then. Daryl smiled to himself.

Maybe Daryl was a little slow on the uptake. Maybe he was the last one to figure out what was going on, and to admit some things to himself he had been adamant about not even thinking about before. And maybe he was scared shitless of what he had found, but he had finally solved it. The answer was currently lying beside him in the bed, pressed to his back.  _And Merle's ghost could go fuck himself_ , he thought as he tugged the arm holding him tighter around him. He might have been a little stubborn, but he wasn't stupid. He knew now exactly what that feeling blooming in his chest was.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Writing is my lifeline and these two bastards have stolen my heart for good. Rickyl has been my ship of choice for a good while, and my imagination is a crazy horse on crack, galloping away in my head, but this is the first time I've tried to actually write down any of the stories cluttering my head. Tell me what you think, so I'll know if I should keep going and write the rest of them down, or if this was the worst idea ever and I should just quit immediately and hide under my bed in shame.
> 
> Leave a comment if it tickles your fancy. And a kudos if it's a good kind of tickle.


End file.
